Sara sat on the padded exam table, her hands resting over the swell of her stomach. At just over seven months pregnant, everything felt heavier — her body, her thoughts, even her heart some days.

Grissom sat beside her, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles over her wrist — grounding her.

The doctor, Dr. Lacey — a woman in her mid-fifties with gentle eyes — glanced up from Sara's chart.

"Alright, Sara. We're getting closer now — just a couple more months. Everything looks good so far, but I'd like to go over your medical history in a bit more detail before we get to the scan. It's important we understand anything that might impact delivery or recovery."

Sara hesitated, heart tightening in her chest. She'd known this moment was coming. She could feel Grissom's subtle shift beside her — alert, ready to support her.

"I… didn't really have medical care growing up," Sara admitted. "My mom… wasn't the kind of person who cared about things like that."

Dr. Lacey's expression softened without a hint of pity — just quiet understanding. "That's alright. We'll work with what we know. Any major injuries or surgeries we should be aware of?"

Sara swallowed, casting a glance at Grissom — his eyes holding steady on hers. She nodded.

"Burns… third-degree. On my back. From when I was a kid."

Dr. Lacey's face stayed calm, professional. "Okay. Any complications from those injuries — scarring that limits mobility, pain, or sensitivity?"

Sara shook her head. "Just scars."

Grissom's hand tightened around hers.

Dr. Lacey made a note. "Thank you for telling me. And emotional health — any history of PTSD, anxiety, depression?"

Sara gave a small smile — dry, but honest. "All of the above, at one time or another."

Grissom spoke then, his voice quiet but steady. "She's working with a counselor and she has got a good support network."

Dr. Lacey nodded approvingly. "That's excellent. Support makes all the difference."

When they finally moved to the scan, the tension eased a little. The lights dimmed, the cool gel spread across her skin, and then — there was their baby. Clearer now, moving with that liquid, quiet grace inside her.

"There's your little one…" Dr. Lacey murmured, smiling.

Grissom's breath caught — and for a long moment, he forgot to hide it.

Sara turned her head toward him — his eyes were glassy.

"She's got your nose," he whispered.

Sara let out a watery laugh. "I was hoping for your eyes."

The apartment was slowly transforming around them. Catherine had insisted on organizing a "CSI baby shower" — much to Sara's horror — but it turned out surprisingly low-key and heartfelt. Warrick brought jazz records for the baby's room. Nick put together the baby change unit with military precision. Greg — of course — gave them matching science-themed baby onesies.

"It has to have bugs," Gil said one night, holding up a vintage entomology print with a boyish grin.

Sara laughed, shaking her head. "Only you would think insects belong in a nursery."

But secretly… she loved it.

They had already painted the walls a soft sage green, and now adorned them with delicate silhouettes of butterflies, dragonflies, and beetles winding their way across one wall — not cartoonish, but elegant and whimsical. Grissom had framed antique botanical prints featuring moths and bees for the opposite wall.

A mobile of tiny wooden insects hung above the crib — butterflies in vibrant blues, ladybugs with bright red wings, delicate gold fireflies.

Sara stood in the doorway one evening, hand over her bump, as Grissom adjusted a shelf filled with plush insects and bug-themed books.

"This is perfect," she whispered.

He turned, crossing the room to wrap his arms around her from behind, resting his hands on her growing belly.

"So are you."

But it wasn't just the nursery they were working on.

Sara stood in their new kitchen one evening, watching Grissom line up their battered, beloved books on the towering shelves of their open-plan living space.

She walked over, wrapping her arms around him from behind — her belly pressing against his back.

"This is home," she whispered.

Grissom turned, kissing her forehead with aching tenderness.

"It always was, Sara. We just didn't know what it looked like until now."